


Retread the Garden Path

by hollyhock (willowthorn)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Sih:38 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 22:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20125105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowthorn/pseuds/hollyhock
Summary: Moments in the aftermath of it all.





	Retread the Garden Path

He stumbles into the sand, waves crashing in his ears as he breathes the name of the one he thought lost so long ago to his own selfish ego, his own stubborn pride. His touch is gentle, disbelieving as he takes in green and gold and pale, beautiful eyes that have grown to hold so much sorrow. "Samot, Samot." He says it like a prayer to the other God and he hopes beyond hope that he's here, he's real, and it is not too late. 

"Please," He wants so much, he wants to know that he's ok, that Hadrian did truly bring him back to him after all these many years, that this after all was not the end but a new beginning. "Husband, my love, speak to me." But the greenery within him is thick and painful looking, the arms that come to wrap around his shoulders are weak and far too light. 

He gets no voice, but he gets the press of a cheek against his own. Samothes cannot divine who the tears belong to. They feel the waves wash through them together, and the plants bloom sweet and soft. 

They sit together in the coming days, the island buzzing with excitement that does not reach into their quarters. He takes care to hold Samot gently as he recovers, wine and books and small trays of his favourite foods placed like offerings at his side. He cannot tell if he resents this, or how it ended, or the many, many things they had fought over all those many years ago still - the small, inconsequential differences that turned into weaponry in the face of a larger anger. He apologizes as a humble man. He hopes he apologizes as a better man. "I was wrong in so many ways. I should have listened to you." 

"What's done is done, husband."

"Tell me what became of that university of yours." He tries one night, brushing through Samot's hair as he once did. It had been getting long again since he arrived many weeks ago.

"They… use it well. There are still old memories there, kept in rooms that are not safe for them to use, but they do both more and less than I had envisioned when it was made. There are so many people living there, and I… " He breathes deeply, eyes closed and brows furrowed. 

"I know. You don't have to say it if it pains you." He kisses into thick blond hair, Samot's hand coming to wrap around his own. 

"Now, I would much rather fix those curls of yours than continue to dwell on things past. Come here." Samot turns to him, smiling gently as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock back behind his ear. 

The next morning Samothes presses a bottle of scented oil into Samot's palm. Today they would go together into the city, and he wanted to make sure his hair was properly cared for. It was a bright scent, warm in its depth, and the silver in his hair shone like iron when they stepped out into the light together. 

Above them, apple blossoms hung like clouds. Within him, wooly thyme smells sweet and herby as his husband wraps his arm around his waist. 

The coffee they get is dark and rich, his husband's hand warm against his own. The people of Aubade smile at him, smile at them both. There are curious glances and words exchanged, but they are happy in a way Samot has not seen for far too long. The sun is bright, the star-stuff glowing. They take their time buying bread, apples, and a wide-brimmed hat. His husband laughs with his people, and still his hand holds fast around Samot's own. He kisses the back of his hand, and Samothes' words stumble as he's distracted. He laughs as his husband pulls him tightly in his arms, facial hair tickling as he promises kisses of revenge for the interruption. 

It feels, for the briefest moment, like it used to. 

There are some nights where he can sleep peacefully now, but they are far from the norm. Samothes will rouse himself, scratching into his wolf's fur and telling stories of little consequence to bring him back to the present. They take to napping together in the height of the afternoon heat, a small hour to recompose themselves. They do not have duties like they used to, but they try to use their time well. Samot takes on a pet project helping to refine the school curriculum, running through slight issues with individual teachers. They talk of classroom size and student resources. They talk community involvement and the needs of small children. It has been so, so long since he was a parent, but he still remembers the unabashed confidence and little sticky hands of his son. 

"We could try again here." Samothes says one afternoon, tentative. They had been talking through one of the small hiccups in the playground the school had been trying to set up for the younger citizens - while most of the children scaled the wooden steps with ease, not all children could, leaving them feeling excluded. "I know, but I do not think a pully system would be a realistic or fun solution on either end, although novel. Maybe a ramp that could shift to a climbing wall?" 

He chuckles, kissing Samot's hand. "That's not what I meant, love."

It takes a moment, and a moment more for the ache to pass enough to let him speak. "I do not think I am ready yet. Perhaps one day, but not yet." He watches his pale hands twist against Samothes' robe, closing his eyes against the memories of blond hair and a brilliant smile stretching across freckled cheeks. He remembers his son's voice, and he curls into his husband's chest. They lay quietly until light fades and the glow of the star-stuff reminds them of the passage of time. 

That night he dreams of a girl with dark hair and kind eyes smiling up at him, honeysuckle blooming at her feet. 

They decide in the morning to build a proper memorial for their son, something full of joy instead of the mourning shrine that rested in the depths of their home. He plants sunflowers. When they are done, it is a beautiful garden, overflowing with colour and life. There are little statues tucked within the foliage, trinkets resting at their feet. Small things he used to play with as a child, books he loved to read as a young adult. Things that would remind him of his friends. They promise to do better. To be kinder. To listen more. To let their disagreements end with them. 

To not let another child suffer. 

Samot does not think he will ever be fully ready for another child. Not after Maelgywn. But he thinks about it, wonders at small hands and bright eyes.

Samothes finds his husband sitting in the garden some nights, white fur glowing as he sings to their son's memory. He keeps a silent vigil, and calls for tea when it's clear neither of them will be able to sleep. He knows they're not ready yet, and maybe they never will be. But he crouches down to play with his smaller citizens all the same, and he tries to not let his heart hurt. 

There will be time enough to heal, he says to himself. He says it again as he runs his hand along the small blooms that have shown their colours on his husband's cheek. He does not know what Aubade will look like in ten thousand years - he tries to not obsessively plan out and rearrange things to a certain path anymore - but he knows at very least within the bubble they will have time, and that will have to be enough.

He learns to play guitar again.

**Author's Note:**

> Today's headcanon is that Samothes used to play guitar when he was young
> 
> Find me at @willowthorn (firehands sunkisser) on twitter


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